In an age when even pleasure is steam-powered – a group of men is determined to stand in the way of progress.

It’s a Golden Age for Britain, Victoria is on the throne, queen to more than half the world. The country’s steam-powered factories, the most modern in the world, churn out goods, including clockwork pleasure kits, for the masses, but there are rumblings of dissent against not only the impersonal lovemaking machines, but the Queen herself. Underground sex clubs spring up for the ultimate flesh-on-flesh encounter, and a group of sexual outlaws seem intent on bringing down the whole artificial edifice. They’re not to know Prince Albert’s shadowy Secret Police are on their trail.

eBook Cover Price: 0.99

Length: 11712 words

Gay Steampunk Group / Orgy / Ménage

Heat rating: 4

Excerpt

I have to say I was more than a little surprised, make that perturbed, when I discovered the government was considering legislating for universal pleasure. Don’t get me wrong, I believe in pleasure. Unreservedly. I indulge at every opportunity I dare. But how does one legislate to ensure everyone has an equal opportunity for pleasure? The ugly, the crippled, the incapacitated?

It was a balmy autumn afternoon in the year 1896 when I received an inkling of what was in store. Selwyn and I looked down on the celebrations as what appeared to be the entire population of London lined the footpaths, waving patriotic little flags, as the British army marched proudly along Piccadilly to Hyde Park.

Seated comfortably in one of the welcoming leather armchairs on the second floor of my club, with the din from the parade thankfully fading in the distance, my best friend was telling me about a conversation he had overheard. He didn’t seem to believe the story himself, but being of an inquisitive, albeit dissolute, nature, he thought it may entertain me.

“I don’t believe you,” I scoffed loudly enough that several members of the Dubhghall Club glared over their crisp copies of The Times at the young upstart who had shattered their snoozes.

He repeated himself in a considerably lower voice to reinforce his own skepticism. Selwyn Gregory had been my closest friend and confidant for as long as I could remember. We met at boarding school where we bonded over sweet biscuits sent by my gracious old Nanny Borden, and a love of the most ghastly gothic penny-dreadfuls, our favorite being Varney the Vampire, or Feast of Blood despite its inconsistencies of character and its anachronistic setting.

We became firm friends even though our respective families discouraged us, often citing our closeness as unhealthy. I don’t know about unhealthy, but we did share a passion for sodomy, not with each other, although I had long harbored an unnatural desire for my friend who I thought would be mortified to discover my secret. I was, at that stage of my life, a sporting man, equally at home on the football field as the cricket pitch and had played for England against the Australians in a number of Test matches. The very antithesis of what it was to be a nancy boy.

I have the wealth that enables me to indulge to my heart’s, I should really say my cock’s and arse’s, content, for unlike poor Selwyn, I am not an exclusivist. I’m afraid he’s quite blatant in his disregard for social niceties, much to my chagrin. I, of course, fully intend to marry one day, thus perpetuating the family name. His family’s will die out with him, being an only son.

I did wish I didn’t give a rat’s arse about such social niceties and wish I had the courage to act upon my unrequited desire. Every time I gazed at my dear friend, I longed to kiss those soft brown lips, wrap my strong masculine arms about him, and have my way with his body. Close as we were, I could never tell him I loved him. It would have been the death of our friendship which meant so much to me, not only because I have a dearth of close friends, but because he accepted me for the eccentric that I am: even liked me for it.